Hostage
by EmbassyBeets
Summary: Smithson Utivich is captured by Nazis a couple of months after the basterds arrive in France. While en route to be interrogated, the Nazis are ambushed by a small branch of the French Resistance, and Utivich finds himself in the company of the vigilantes.
1. Chapter 01: Black bag

Hostage

Setting: Nazi Occupied France, April 1944

Disclaimer: Quentin owns it all, except for my original characters. Don't sue me, 'cause I don't have any money.

Author's Note: Hello there. I've spent the last few days reading & falling in love with many of the fanfics posted on and several livejournal communities. Smitty is my favorite basterd (I love Stiglitz & Wicki, too), and this idea has been floating around in my head for a while, so I decided to put it on paper (well...you get it). I hope it's not too horrible. Bear with me - I haven't written in a long time and I've never written Inglourious Basterds. I really love and thrive on comments & constructive criticisms, so please, don't be shy! Hope at least a few people like it.

Oh, and also, I'm not even going to embarrass myself by trying to use a translator to write sentences in German and French, because I know most of those translations end up being inaccurate. So, all of my dialogue will be written in English, with the exception of a few common phrases ("Bonjour," "Tais toi!" "De Rien" etc).

* * *

**Chapter One; **

He doesn't know how it happened, or even when, really (the timeline is…blurry), but it did. It absolutely fucking did. He'd been captured. By those fucking Nazi pigs. He had been sent into town (a short distance, which is why he opted to go alone) for a few supplies, and the next thing he knew he had a black bag over his head before everything faded out. Now, he sits slumped over – god only knows where he is – as the rumbling of the moving vehicle and the loud chatter of unrecognizable voices finally stirs him awake. After a few moments, he recognizes the voices as German – and he thinks he hears the word "American" thrown around a couple of times – and then it really sets in that he probably won't be alive for much longer. He wills back the tears that are fighting to escape because, shit, if he's going to die at the hands of these fucks, he wants to at least retain some dignity.

So he just sits there - because what the hell else can he do? – and fades in and out as the truck bounces along. After a seemingly long amount of time, the car comes to a sudden halt and he hears harsh shouting from outside of the vehicle. Almost immediately, he feels bodies roughly shoving past him, and he hears the heavy thump of boots hitting the gravel outside. The next five minutes are a complete blur: he hears shouting, and then laughing, and a different voice – a woman maybe? Definitely not German.

And then, he hears it. That loud, penetrating sound that he was just starting to get used to. Gunshots. A shit load of gunshots, and his stomach flips in anticipation. Maybe it's the lieutenant and the rest of the men coming to his rescue. He hears a different set of voices outside that he immediately identifies as French, and his mind starts to race. What the fuck is going on? He strains to hear the conversation taking place outside, and he prays that those two years of French he took in school will finally do him some good. He listens and listens, and finally he picks up something, just a small fragment of a sentence, but he pieces it together the best he can and comes to the conclusion that whoever was speaking just said, "check the truck for supplies."

His heart is beating so loud he's sure the strangers outside can hear it. He feels a presence in the truck and desperately tries to look around, even though everything is still cloaked in darkness. He hears a gruff laugh almost directly above him and then another unrecognizable sentence is being shouted to someone. He's yanked to his feet and promptly thrown from the truck onto the rough gravel below. He struggles but he manages to get himself on his knees after a few embarrassing seconds of flopping around. He hears more talking and then that fucking black bag is finally ripped from his head. His eyes automatically snap shut due to the ruthless transition from complete darkness to bright sunlight. Once his eyes adjust to the light, he sees three figures standing above him – two men and a woman. One man is holding a Walther, and it's pointed directly at his face. The other man has some kind of machine gun at his side. The woman has a cigarette resting between her lips, and a small, bloodstained axe in her right hand. She kind of reminds him of Hannah Dusten, that crazy colonist woman who slaughtered something like ten Indians with a similar looking weapon.

"Tu parle Francais?" the woman speaks and he quickly shakes his head no.

"Allemand?" She asks again, her voice dripping with contempt and bitterness, and he shakes his head no, this time much more vigorously.

"Anglais?" She says finally, and this time he nods. She raises an eyebrow and smirks a little bit.

"Who are you? And why were those Hun pigs holding you prisoner?" Her accent is thick, but her English is near perfect.

"I, uh…." He stutters out, his voice raspy and his throat dry. "My name is Smithson Utivich." He pauses for a moment to wonder if it was a good idea to reveal his real name, but quickly continues. "I'm, uh, American, obviously, and I, um…" He just couldn't find the right words to explain himself. What was he supposed to say, _"I'm a member of an American secret service organization, and for the past two months we've been sneaking around behind enemy lines killing as many Nazis as possible." _Looking around at the dead bodies littering the ground around him, however, actually sort of convinces him that maybe that was exactly what he was supposed to say. So he does.

She raises her eyebrow even higher and a mocking smirk spreads across her face. A dry laugh erupts from her throat and Utivich immediately begins to regret his choice of words.

"You really expect me to believe, that **you**," she pokes him in the chest with the handle of her axe to emphasize her point, "are a member of a secret service organization, and you go around slaughtering Nazis?"

Utivich nods meekly and the French woman snorts involuntarily before laughter bubbles up from her throat. The men on either side of her just stand there, looking confused by her amusement, and she quickly offers them a rough translation, and what do you know, they start laughing too. What the fuck's so funny? He's telling the truth.

After a few moments, the laughing subsides, and then the woman is just...looking at him. Studying him. He watches her, too, because he knows that looking away would only drive her incorrect suspicions that he's lying further. She raises her arm to pluck the cigarette from her mouth and as she does so, the sleeve of her coat falls slightly, revealing the marking that has been carved into her forearm. His mouth falls open slightly in surprise, in excitement, in this, sudden realization that this woman and himself have more in common than he initially thought.

"You're Jewish?" He asks, before he even considers what her reaction might be.

Any trace of a smile left present on the woman's face is now completely absent, and her eyebrows are furrowed together in a scowl.

"Why?" She asks, stepping forward and lowering her axe slightly so it's lined up directly with his head. His skull. He imagines the awful cracking sound it would make and he sucks in a breath as her eyes burn holes into his face. "Do you have some kind of problem with Jews?" Her knuckles are white from gripping the wooden handle so tightly and he has to fix this.

"No! No, not at all." He pauses and looks up, directly into her eyes for once. "I'm...a Jew." She cocks an eyebrow at him – he's definitely got her attention - but the blade of her axe hasn't moved.

"With a name like _Smithson Utivich_ I kindly doubt that." She responds, her voice conveying a mixture of curiosity, anger, and irritation.

"No, really, I'm Jewish. My uh, my family has always been very..." he pauses for a moment, trying to find the right word. All those years of studying journalism have obviously done nothing. "assimilated...with American society. Never really embraced our Jewish heritage. I hate the name Smithson, personally. I usually go by Smitty, or even just Utivich..." He keeps talking, because he's too nervous to stop now that he's started. "My parents always hated it. They used to always –"

"Tais-toi!" she snaps suddenly, lowering her axe and reaching into her pocket for a cigarette to slip between her lips. He's taken enough French to know that he needs to keep his fucking mouth shut now, so he waits for her indication before he speaks again. "I don't wish to be regaled by the tale of your entire life story." She pauses for a moment to think, still watching him, and he swallows the lump in his throat.

"Sorry." He answers carefully.

He eyes the makeshift tattoo on her arm again, the _Magen David_ carefully carved right into her skin. She watches him for a little while longer before she dismisses the two men on either side of her, and suddenly it's just the two of them. She smokes; he fidgets and glances around uncomfortably before deciding, against his better judgment, to break the silence yet again.

"Who did that to you?" Smitty asks, nodding carefully at her forearm.

He asks because it looks like it was done with a knife of some sort, and not like a traditional tattoo. It reminds him of something that would be found on a man in prison, not a woman. _A woman who's currently got you on your knees with a bloody axe about eight inches away from your face, _he reminds himself.

"I did. Two years ago, after I joined the resistance." She responds casually as she lowers the axe (finally) and moves behind him. Within seconds, his hands are untied and, fuck, it feels good to have complete control of all of his limbs again.

"Oh. Yeah, I guess you can't walk into a tattoo parlor and ask to get the Star of David tattooed on your arm. Not nowadays anyway." His attempt to make small talk is failing fast – she simply glares at him coldly before walking away – and he sighs, exasperated. "So, what's um, what's going to happen? With me...being here? I mean, should I just...go? Find my way back to my-"

"You're not going anywhere." The still unnamed woman interrupts and Smitty can't help but frown slightly. "Not yet anyways. I don't trust you completely just yet, but it's obvious that you're..." she pauses and looks him up and down briefly. "harmless. At least, when you're right here in front of us. You say you're a Nazi killer, then you're going to have to prove it. You're going to have to prove that you're one of us and not one of them before we let you go." She takes notice of the disappointed look on Smitty's face and shrugs. "Do you even know where you are right now? Where would you even go if we let you leave? It will be in everyone's best interest if you stay with us."

Utivich knows that she's right. It's not exactly smart for an American Jew to be wandering through Nazi-occupied France, looking for the Lieutenant and the rest of the men. He could ruin the whole mission.

"Yeah I guess that makes sense. And yeah, I have no idea where we are right now." He answers, sadly looking around.

She smiles at him, faintly, and gestures to the truck Utivich had been held captive in.

"We'll be leaving soon. You can have some water," she pauses and hands him the canteen from the satchel that is slung around her shoulder. "and use the bathroom if you must. We're taking those assholes' truck. You and I will drive. Have a little chat." Her voice is so cold he can't help the shiver that shoots up his spine.

"Okay..." Smitty speaks quietly, eyes on the ground. While racking his brain for something clever to say, he remembers how dry his throat feels and takes a long swig from the canteen. When he's finished, he hands it back to the woman and she takes it without a word.

"Thanks."

"De rien." She replies coolly and turns to walk away again.

"Hey, um..." Utivich calls after her and she turns around once again, irritated. "What's your name?" He asks despite the scowl etched on her face.

"Jorden Badeau." She replies, and then nods at the axe in her right hand. "And don't fucking do anything that's going to make me have to use this."

Although her voice is stern and her eyes are narrowed at him, there's a sort of playful tone to her voice, and Utivich thinks that maybe this won't be so bad after all.


	2. Chapter 02: Feels like home

Hey guys! Sorry it's taken me so long to update, I just don't have very reliable internet connection for my laptop. But yeah, here's chapter two. A little boring, so sorry, but the next chapter will definitely be better and a little more exciting. Reviews will definitely encourage me to update faster! ;) Hope you enjoy.

Hostage

**Chapter 2;**

The long, bumpy car ride is uncomfortably quiet for the first twenty minutes or so. Well, uncomfortable for Utivich at least. He sits in the front of the truck, about two feet of space between himself and Jorden (and not to mention the Beretta resting casually in her lap) as she drives along, looking as aloof as ever. He keeps his eyes on the road ahead, but occasionally sneaks a glance at the woman next to him. She can't be much older than twenty-five, and her eyebrows seem to be furrowed together in a permanent scowl. Her dirty auburn hair is pulled back into an impossibly messy bun, there's blood and dirt caked underneath her fingernails, and she almost always has a cigarette hanging lazily from between her lips. There's nothing particularly striking about the way that she looks. In fact, she's rather plain looking, and all of the dirt and grime and blood on top of that…well, she's no Lana Turner. But there's something about her eyes that Smitty can't help but find…captivating. They're big and almond shaped, and he thinks he can spot a few specks of gold mixed in with the green.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" Jorden asks suddenly, breaking the silence and snapping Utivich out of his trance.

"Sorry." He mumbles in reply as he turns back to face the window.

"You sure are peculiar." As she speaks she reaches into the pocket of her coat and fishes out yet another cigarette, but this time she offers one to Utivich.

"Oh…thanks." He gives a half smile and takes one hesitantly.

She offers him matches as well, and once he takes the first drag of the cigarette, his mind instantly wanders to the Basterds. Smitty doesn't smoke very often (Especially when supplies are scarce – he likes to save the cigarettes for the other men who seem to _need_ them), but most of the other men do. The gossamer smoke fills his lungs and a strange feeling of nostalgic comfort washes over him as he gazes out the window of the truck. For a few moments he forgets about the intimidating woman sitting next to him.

"Hmm." She hums, and Utivich realizes that Jorden has been watching him reflect.

Well, for a few short moments. Smitty racks his brain for something substantial to say. Normally, silence doesn't bother him too much. He actually kind of likes it. But this particular silence is deafening. I mean, shit, he has no knowledge of who these people are, or where they're taking him, and this woman is so curt and puzzling and she has a fucking semi-automatic pistol sitting in her lap (and he's about 99% sure that she's more than ready to use it). So, he sits there, but for whatever reason, there is seemingly no connection between his mouth and his brain.

"They want to kill you, you know." Jorden starts speaking again, and Smitty turns his head to look at her, curiously.

"Who?" He asks, his eyes wide and conveying a mixture of confusion and fear.

"The rest of the men working with me." She pauses for a moment, and, seeing Smitty's confused expression, decides to elaborate further, "They don't trust you. To be honest, I don't either, not completely, but I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. I find it highly doubtful that you're a collaborator, as some of _mes amies_ seem to think; Nonetheless, your presence is still quite suspicious, considering your brevity concerning the supposed organization that you're working for."

"I can't really reveal much about the organization, though. I mean, secret service organization… it's pretty self explanatory." Smitty speaks carefully and quietly, afraid he'll upset the woman if he doesn't do so.

"I understand that. I'm not asking for specifics. Just tell me something."

Utivich sighs and takes a moment to think before answering. While he's under strict orders not to reveal anything about the basterds and their plans for the Nazis, he has to say something. He can't lie, because he's sure any lie he tells here will catch up to him in an extremely unpleasant way. And they are working on the same side…

"Well… there are nine of us altogether… our lieutenant and then eight other men, including me. Um…" He pauses, looking over at Jorden who gives him a nod of encouragement. "We're all Jews. Well, actually, I'm pretty sure the lieutenant isn't Jewish, but I've never really asked. Basically our mission is to terrorize and instill fear in the German military. We've only been in France for a couple of months but I think our mission has been successful so far."

"Huh." She remarks quietly. "Is that all you can tell me?"

"Unfortunately."

"Then that will have to do for now." She sighs, slightly frustrated, and Utivich is surprised by her calm demeanor.

He had expected her to shove the pistol in his face and demand information. He almost would have preferred it. Her sudden passive attitude sends another wave of nervous energy through his body, but he decides to take advantage of her demeanor and make small talk.

"You know… I've heard stories about the Resistance, and I always imagined it was on a much bigger scale than this." She looks at him, intrigued, and he hesitantly continues. "I mean, I only saw about twenty other people besides you, and I just, I don't know, I guess I just imagined it differently."

She laughs then, and he gazes at her, puzzled.

"This is a very small uh, branch, of the Resistance. The Resistance is everywhere, in many places you wouldn't expect. Railroads, telephone companies, postal offices. _We_ work more on an individual scale. We utilize a more guerrilla style of fighting. There are many other factions like us organized all throughout Nazi-occupied France. Don't be misled… there is much more than what the eye can see."

"Wow." Smitty ponders quietly and a small smile grazes her lips. "So what exactly do you do?"

"Actually…what we do is not much different than what you describe. We ambush small groups of Nazi soldiers, extract information from the weak ones before we exterminate them, steal their supplies, and once every month we meet with a British spy and we tell him what information we've acquired. In exchange, the S.O.E. provides us with money, supplies, weapons, and many other things."

"The S.O.E?" Utivich asks, genuinely intrigued by the inner-workings of the Resistance.

"Oh, uh, the Special Operations Executive, it's a British intelligence organization that was established by Churchill. Been aiding the Resistance for almost four years."

They sit in silence for a few moments, but the tension is slowly melting away. Utivich is starting to feel much more comfortable telling Jorden about certain things. He rationalizes that it's far more beneficial to be held hostage by Resistance fighters rather than the Nazis.

"We're almost there."

"Almost where?" He asks, and suddenly she turns the truck off the road and onto a smaller path leading into the trees.

"There's an abandoned building about fifteen miles this way. That will be our shelter for the night at least, maybe longer. The rest of the men are already there, so we'll eat something, and then sleep for a few hours. It's important you eat and rest, because later tonight at around 3 A.M. we have a mission to complete." She slips another cigarette between her lips as Smitty gazes at her, confused.

"3 A.M.?"

"Yes." She replies coolly, exhaling a large cloud of smoke. "We have a connection with the Fer Reseau," she takes in his puzzled expression and rolls her eyes slightly, "a resistance group made up of railroad workers, and they recently received a shipment of German food supplies and are giving us access to the freight cars tonight before they are shipped out in the morning."

"And what are we planning to do with the shipments?" He asks, and a sinister grin forms on Jorden's face before she takes a long drag of her cigarette.

"Let's just say…that we have a bountiful supply of nitric and hydrochloric acid." She pauses, maybe for dramatic effect, and continues, "You, me, and about three other men will be making the trip. It's a relatively easy task as long as we're careful. I figured it was a good opportunity for your first test."

"Wow..." Utivich pauses for a second, taking all of the information in, "Squatting in abandoned buildings...Nazi food supplies....poison."

"What? What are you thinking?" Jorden asks, puzzled and slightly annoyed.

"I'm thinking..." He sighs and turns to face the woman driving. "I'm thinking this feels like..._home._"


End file.
